Creative Challenge: Post 7

He didn’t look anything like she expected. Somehow, she expected the deadliest man on Earth to be a little more...buff? But this skinny twenty-something in front of her was gangly, raggedy, and scruffy, like a tramp or a beaten street dog.

Or a lizard, she supposed. The rumor of his animal hybridity was something she hadn’t really believed in, and yet somehow, despite it being unimaginably true, that also turned out to be a disappointment. She had expected great wings, or fangs that went to his chin, or for his body to be completely covered in scales or hair. Instead, he looked like had jaundice, with yellow eyes and paler skin than she would have expected on someone from south of Mexico. His tail was kind of impressive, a big, snaky scaly thing coming out of his ass, but looked more like a hinderance than anything helpful.

“So?” he repeated. She shook her head to clear it, and put on her most convincing fake smile.

“So, Mr, uh…”

“Sal. Just Sal,” he said, lighting a cigarette. She coughed politely to try and get him to put it out (she never much liked smoke), but he just looked at her and puffed it anyway. Frowning, she shuffled her papers and glanced at them again.

“Well, Sal…” she paused. “I’m sorry, but you really don’t look like you-”

She felt the bullet race past her ear and hit the brick behind her. The little click and puff sound that had accompanied its exit from the barrel had been barely audible over the traffic of the street behind them. She felt herself utter a little involuntary scream and drop her papers; she hadn’t even seen him draw the weapon.

She watched as he fitted the cigarette lightly between his teeth and pick up the papers; the gun was gone again, holstered inside his long jacket. He rifled through them, raising his hand to his mouth to draw the toxic stick away, exhale, and replace it.

“Five million,” he said quietly. She blinked. “And I want a private plane, hotel room booked and paid for, and hooker money.”

“Sal, you can’t possib-”

“I do,” he said, thrusting the papers back into her arms; she quaked. “I do possibly mean it. I want five million dollars, a couple of good French whores, and I’ll get your double-trouble pair tagged out two days after I land. I want a return plane exactly eighteen hours I land the shots. You can feel free to bug me, GPS me, put cameras in my room, whatever to make sure I’m on track, but no surveillance.” He exhaled smoke again; she coughed.

“Nothing upfront?”

“Just the whores. I trust you.” He cocked an evil smile, and she noticed the shift in him: his leaned musculature that she had taken for lankiness, his hardened face, the yellow eyes that only held control, and bemusement.

They had planned to have him killed in an ‘accident’ after the assassination to keep him quiet. Clearly, this was impossible, and unnecessary; he had no interest in secrets. Just killing, and his money.